


Some Kinda Voodoo

by RadioMoth



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Clothed Sex, Consensual Sex, Drug Use, Dry Humping, Finger Sucking, Frottage, Incest, M/M, Shitty College Parties, Sibling Incest, The Ambiguous "Back Room"
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-20
Updated: 2018-04-20
Packaged: 2019-04-25 09:36:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,879
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14376042
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RadioMoth/pseuds/RadioMoth
Summary: He can’t speak, but his body does all the talking it needs to do for him.It’s in the way he tilts his head, the angle of his chin, the sway of his hips, the slow slide of his hand over his chest as he tilts his head back and feels the music like a living thing, in a way no one else really knows how to do. In the way he cracks open his eyes and turns, as if checking to make sure you’re watching. In the way his lips curl up in a grin that is neither subtle nor demure- he knows what he’s doing.What he’s saying to you.[In Other Words: Actual, Consensual Makaracest. For Once.]





	Some Kinda Voodoo

**Author's Note:**

> Required Listening: [ Rabbit's Foot - Turbowolf ](%E2%80%9D)

He can’t speak, but his body does all the talking it needs to do for him. 

 

It’s in the way he tilts his head, the angle of his chin, the sway of his hips, the slow slide of his hand over his chest as he tilts his head back and  _ feels _ the music like a living thing, in a way no one else really knows how to do. In the way he cracks open his eyes and turns, as if checking to make sure you’re watching. In the way his lips curl up in a grin that is neither subtle nor demure- he knows what he’s doing.

 

What he’s saying to you. 

 

The song is something rockish and harsh, with a nasally singer and a guitar that shreds its way up and down the scales- not something you usually listen to, but right now it’s heaven in your ears; your fingertips tingle with each euphoric pulse-snap of the drumline, eyes heavy lidded as they watch his fingers slide up over the smooth column of his own throat, over his face, to tangle in perfectly-crafted dreadlocks. His hips snap and his body curves on beat, and every time he shifts and sways in perfect time with the music it sends another little surge of lust fluttering through your gut. 

 

The empty red solo cup in your hand crumples in your grip. You can’t take your eyes off him long enough to make sure you’re setting it on the table when you let it go; it probably ends up on the floor, but you’re too beyond yourself to care. 

 

His grin only grows wider, and you know he’s teasing you. Goading you. Pushing at your buttons till you snap- and it’s always you that snaps, never  _ his  _ patience wearing thin, never  _ his  _ hands that reach and grab and pull,  _ his  _ lips that curl into a snarl half devoured by another searching mouth. Someday, you need to correct that. Today, you’re far too busy resisting the urge to pin him down and take him in the middle of a crowded party.

 

Instead, you jerk your head. The shake of his shoulders, his silent laughter, lets you know he sees you, and you wrench your gaze away to stalk through the party, turning halls till you find an empty room. Here, the sound of the music is muffled, but the heavy bass thuds through the floorboards and in your chest, your breath coming out in a stuttered little sigh as you sit on a bed. Sheets, so soft under your calloused fingers; pillows, plush as motherfuck as you let yourself fall back onto them. Everything spins  _ just _ enough to make it interesting, but he doesn’t keep you waiting long. 

 

The door creaks open after you and he slips in, all lanky limbs and narrow shoulders, the lean to your broad. He smiles like he has a secret, and when you reach out to him he slips into your arms and slides his hands over your cheeks, pulling you in for a chaste kiss on the mouth. 

 

It’s not enough. What he gives you is never enough- you always want more, want more of his touch, his taste, more of his body pressed against yours and his gasping in your ears and his hands in your hair as he arches above you. You always want more, and he always lets you have it- after he’s had his fill of teasing you half mad with want, of course. He pulls back, his hands shifting to sign, but you catch them in one of your own and shake your head. 

 

No need for talking.

 

Instead, you duck your head to kiss each one of his fingers, and his breath shudders out his nose when you part your lips to take one in your mouth; he shifts his hand to cradle your jaw, sliding the pad of his index over your tongue, and your own hands seek out the curve of his hips, tugging him ever-closer. Always closer. 

 

He tastes like salt and skin and smoke, the acrid tang of tobacco and pot mixing with the dark, bitter curl of GHB in the back of your throat; you suck, and he shivers, spreading his legs around your waist to settle closer against you, rocking his hips against yours as he slides a second finger into your mouth. 

 

He’s rolling just as hard as you are, his eyes heavy lidded, pupils dilated so wide the icey cloud-grey of his irises is almost invisible; your eyes look similar, you’re sure. His other hand traces the patterns of vitiligo spots over your cheeks, the bridge of your nose, your jaw, down your throat until his hand curls around the hem of your shirt, giving it an impatient tug.

 

Hah.

 

If you’d had more mental capability, you’d tease him back; you’d keep your shirt on, your clothes on, drive him just as fucking batshit with lust as he’s driving you, but you’re not a patient man and he’s already curled so prettily in your lap, and he feels so good against you- hot and heavy and already half hard, chest fluttering as he pants for breath through his nose. God fucking dammit, you want him. 

 

Teasing can wait. 

 

You’re reluctant to let his fingers slide from between your lips, but you pull back enough to give you space to strip off your shirt; his hand strokes down the curve of your jaw, over your collarbone, down your chest, and you shiver as the wet trail of saliva cools against your overheated skin. His hand presses flat against your chest, over your heart; you fall back on the bed and he leans over you, pressing close-mouthed kisses to your neck as you curl your hand in his dreads. 

 

Everything feels  _ good _ , resonating with the roll of the bass beat and the echo-thump of your pulse in your ears, euphoric and light, like gravity has fled this plane of existence and the two of you are left to float free; his hands trail fire down your chest, his lips pressing ten tiny points of ice against your throat with each kiss, each bump of his piercings against your skin. You can feel the wet slide of sweat over your forehead, the tickle of his hair against your palm, the way his pulse thuds in time with yours as he presses himself flat against you. 

His own shirt is practically non-existent, just mesh underneath his skeleton hoodie; you drag the fingers of your free hand over it and feel the texture of nylon under your fingers, along with the heat of him. Everything is slow, everything is fast, everything is drawn out till seconds feel like minutes feel like hours feel like days, like each thump of your heart is a ticking clock rattling off the passing of time, and you sigh out a breathy, soft noise of contentment as you rock your hips up against his. 

 

There is no calm like the calm that comes with him pressed against you, resonating with you. Your temper is soothed, your body relaxed, your mind still- there’s just the feeling of him, his presence, his  _ being _ , and the distant echo of music in your ears. 

 

Motherfucking perfection. 

 

His shoulders shake with silent laughter, and he presses a long, slim finger against your lips, silencing any other thoughts that might slip their way out of your mouth and into the real world; you lick him, then part your lips once more, tongue laving over his fingertips as he rocks his hips down against yours. 

_ Ecstasy _ . 

It echoes through you slow and meandering, the pleasure taking its sweet motherfucking time curling its way from your cock to the tips of your limbs; his fingers muffle your moan, and he smiles down at you, face flushed and eyes hazy-soft. Again, and again- the pace he sets up is steady and even, his body leaning over as he presses his forehead to yours. His fingers slide in and out of your mouth in time with the smooth, almost lazy roll of his hips, stroking over your tongue, the taste of him thick in the back of your throat, almost chokingly so. 

 

_ Good _ , a tug to his hair.  _ More, _ a rock of your own hips, pressing the clothed tent of your cock against his. That coaxes out a breathless gasp of his own, and you grin around your mouthful, the hand not in his hair dropping to grip his hip, to pull him down harder against you. 

 

_ More, more more.   _

 

You’ve never been a patient man. 

 

The speed of your hips forces him to pick up his own pace, until the two of you are rocking in perfect time to the music- that ever-present bass beat curling around your brain and lighting up parts of your skull with utter rapture. His sounds are coming more often, more desperate- the sharp huff of air through his nose, his gasping, his soft, needy, muffled little mewls. It makes you shiver, makes your hands grip tighter, and he closes his eyes and presses against you tightly, the two of you plastered together head to toe. 

 

“ _ Kurloz- _ ”

You choke out his name, and it’s muffled, breathless; his fingers press firmly against your tongue, silencing you, before he slides them from between your lips to smash his mouth to yours, kissing you hard. You can taste the astringency of the drugs on his lips mixed with the metal tang of his piercings, hear his breath coming short-quick as he gasps through his nose; his hands fist in your hair, tugging you even closer, his hips jerking against yours as your nails dig into his back, scratching raised marks down dark skin. 

 

His hair feels like silk in your hands, and you tug, he moans-

 

Feeling him shudder against you is euphoria defined. It’s rare that he’s the first to cum, rare that you’re in the frame of mind to notice, and you pull back to watch his face twist as he silently spills against you, eyes squeezed shut tight and back arched as he shivers hard. It’s… motherfucking beautiful.  _ Miraculous _ , even. 

 

And the his eyes are open, pupils so dilated, gaze so intense- his knee jams between your legs and rubs up against you firmly, just the right angle, and  _ you _ aren’t nearly so silent. It wouldn’t surprise you if half the people at the party heard you crying out his name, raspy and hoarse, head thrown back as you tug at his hair and claw your nails down the arch of his spine. 

 

It’s so good, almost too good, burning like motherfucking holy hellfire through your veins, your body set alight with pleasure, torn asunder by euphoric joy; in that moment you swear you understood the universe as a whole, held it in your hands and  _ understood _ -

 

_ Gamzee. _

 

His hand, so soft against your cheek. His gaze, soft and affectionate.

 

_ Gamzee _ , he signs, his special sign for you-

 

_ Brother, we should continue the motherfucking party back home. _

 

His hand cups your face with love, the curl of his fingers filled with iron strength as he pulls you forward for an eager kiss.

 

You think that’s the best motherfucking idea a brother’s ever come up with.

  
  



End file.
